Silence
by PromiseMeYourTragedy
Summary: Oliver finds Hermione broken beyond recognition. How long does it take to earn trust? Find hope? Fall in love? "You've giving up," he scowled, forcing her chin up to look at him. "But I won't let you."
1. Amber

A/N: Hey, readers. I've finally decided to take the plunge into a multi-chaptered fic. I'm quite nervous and would love your feedback.

The idea of Oliver and Hermione really struck me a while back, and I haven't been able to let it go. I hope their relationship will move forward realistically. Because of the nature of the plot, there might be some OOC tendencies, but such is fanfiction, ne?

I should be able to update once every week or two, and the plot is coming to me as I go, so we'll see how far it takes us. :) I promise it will be finished, though.

**WARNING:** This fanfiction contains dark themes, including torture, noncon, and the dealings of someone who went through a tragic experience. It's also about finding hope and trust, so if you can sit through the rough times, I promise better ahead.

Also lots of swearing, some violence, and probable smut. Happy reading.

* * *

><p>"Godric! Heel! Damnit, heel!"<p>

Oliver Wood was calling after his seventy pound Border Collie, who was straining at the end of his leash, his long nose pointed forward into the crisp night air. Oliver wrapped the slack around his hand and pulled back, digging the heels of his shoes between two stones in the cobbled street. The two were brought to an abrupt stop, and Godric immediately sat down and twisted his head to look at Oliver with dark eyes.

"Don't give me that look," Oliver said, kneeling down on the ground and giving the leash a gentler tug. He patted his knee, and the soft sound echoed through the deserted street. "Come here."

The collie seemed to consider for a moment before turning and sauntering back to his owner, his long, multicolored hair blowing in the breeze. He sat facing Oliver, their noses almost touching.

"If you ever want me to take you on a walk in the middle of the night again, you can't go sprinting off like that. I'm sore from Quidditch, mate. Be considerate," Oliver said, rubbing his eyes.

Twenty minutes ago, he had been woken abruptly by Godric throwing himself and his leash onto Oliver's chest. When Oliver had tried to push him away, the dog merely licked him and nudged the leash into his owner's hand. Godric had been downright insistent and fully awake, much different from the snoring, hairy heap that Godric usually was at three am. Though Oliver had the whole weekend to rest, the week's Puddlemere practice, and several bludgers, had pushed his body close to breaking point. When the dog began to howl, Oliver had grudgingly dressed and went out into the fall night.

He was brought out of his thoughts of a warm bed and a glass of brandy by Godric's tongue on his nose. He spluttered and brought his hands up.

"Bloody hell, alright, alright, I forgive you," he said, cupping the dog's ears and giving them a good shake. "Do your business and let's get back in. It's damn cold."

Godric's tail wagged leisurely as they began to walk again. The collie had seemed to calm down, but his nose still pointed determinedly in one direction. Oliver wondered if he had a special place in mind to piss, or if he just smelled a cat. The possibilities made him sleepy, so he trudged mindlessly behind Godric.

Oliver kept his wand in his left hand, tapping it against his side every now and again. Though he and Godric lived in a fairly safe wizarding area, one could never be too safe. Despite Voldemort being long gone at the hand of Harry Potter, the wizarding world was far from at ease. There were stirrings every couple of weeks, vicious killings that ripped communities apart. There were never any witnesses. The Daily Prophet speculated that the killers were 'revolutionaries' budding off from the Death Eaters.

Oliver had thought they would be caught quickly. Now he wasn't so sure. It had been nearly three years since the killings began, and not a single person had seen them. Not anyone that lived, anyways.

He had seen the horrors of the Final Battle, had carried his limp classmates back into the crumbling Great Hall, but Oliver had a hard time feeling worried. The killings had all been far from London, and seemed to target Ministry of Magic officials. He felt safe, maybe even impervious, after he and his whole team had survived the war. He felt so far removed from danger. A bunch of hooded hooligans weren't comparable to Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Besides, he always had Godric as his trusted companion, and Oliver would be willing to bet ten galleons that the collie held his weight in a physical fight.

Despite that, he hoped Potter and his Aurors caught the murderers soon. It was bad for Puddlemere ticket sales, and with the game season coming up, they couldn't afford to lose more money. Darius Crawley, the captain and seeker, actually thought they had a shot at the World Cup this year. Maybe he would even ask Oliver's help on drawing up the plays, since the former Keeper had retired and Oliver had been taken off reserve…

Lost in his thoughts of Quidditch, Oliver didn't notice when Godric stopped abruptly. The leash went slack in his hand and before he knew it, he had walked straight into the dog's bronze backside.

Godric didn't move at all. He was staring at the narrow, dark space between two flats.

"Finally decide to do-"

Oliver was cut off as his dog let out a low growl, the hair on his flank beginning to rise. As if in mimicry, the hair on the back of Oliver's neck prickled as his heart rate shot through the roof. He was suddenly aware of how loudly he was breathing, how his breath fogged before him and filtered away, and the tightness of his grasp on the leash in his right hand and the wood in his left.

He raised his left arm to the darkness. He was a Gryffindor, after all. He wasn't afraid of the dark.

_Probably a damn cat or rabbit. _

But Godric refused to step closer or chase whatever was within the darkness. The growl deepened to a rumble, and he took a defensive stance in front of Oliver.

"Is anyone there?" Oliver called out, his voice steady despite his body's need to turn tail and get the hell out of there.

He didn't feel so sleepy or removed anymore.

Oliver's call echoed in the night; there was no response. Suddenly, Godric shot into the alley between the flats, ripping the leash from his owner's hand. Oliver let out a myriad of swears as the material burnt his flesh, and he cradled the injured hand before looking up.

His dog had disappeared.

"Godric? Godric! Get back here! Come!" he yelled, his voice rising in pitch with apprehension.

His response was absolute silence except for the wind whispering through the trees.

Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath before walking straight into the alley, his wand held out.

The darkness was overwhelming; an awning between the two flats shaded it from all light. As there were no streetlamps on this particular street, and clouds covered the sky, Oliver felt as if he'd just been trapped in a very small cage. Rocks crunched beneath his feet as he tread in slowly, whistling lightly under his breath for Godric to come.

If there was some murderer hiding between the houses, he hoped to at least surprise them in the dark and get the upper hand. There was no use waiting out on the street and yelling until he was killed. The thought made his palms damp, and he clutched his wand more tightly to keep it from slipping.

Very abruptly, Oliver ran into the backside of something warm and furry. He put his hand down to feel Godric's familiar coat and let out a sigh of relief.

"What've you gotten into, boy?" he mumbled, pointing his wand toward the dog. "_Lumos."_

The sight that met Oliver's eyes stunned him to the point that he was sure he was dreaming. He groaned, half from nausea and half in terror.

Godric was leaning over the body of a crumpled woman lying on the ground. She was face-up, her eyes half-lidded. What was left of her destroyed clothing, hanging off her in rags, was covered in blood. One shoe was dangling off her foot, the other near her head. There was swelling and bruising covering her face in the shape of a heel, marring her pale skin beyond recognition. Her nose looked shattered and her lip was split and bleeding. What looked like slash marks covered her exposed breasts, down to her waist and the tops of her thighs.

Oliver hoped she was dead. He hoped she didn't have to suffer through the pain that those injuries would bring.

To his horror, a moment later he saw her chest rise slightly and her finger twitch. She was alive.

Godric leaned down and gently licked the temple of the woman, a small whine coming from his throat as he glanced back at Oliver.

"Oh, fuck, _fuck,_" Oliver muttered, crouching down next to the woman. He placed his hand on a part of her neck that wasn't bruised, feeling a pulse. "Shit. Can you hear me?"

"Yes…" Her response was merely a blowing of air between her lips, hardly audible. Godric licked her face some more, clearing away dirt and blood.

Oliver was frozen in indecision. If she were a muggle, he would have to take her to the nearest hospital as fast as possible. But would there be questions? Could he just drop her off? What if she was a witch? Worse yet, what if the attacker was still around? Could he beat him? Or them?

Godric finally stopped licking the woman to bend down and dig at something embedded in the dirt. What he uncovered was a beautiful wand snapped into pieces. Dragon heartstring poked out of the middle in long red strands.

She was a witch. The thought made Oliver's chest constrict. This was too close to home. This was dangerous.

They had to get out of there right now. He could apparate safely with Godric, but he suspected it would kill the woman in her weakened state. St. Mungos was in the shopping district of downtown London, a good twenty miles away from where Oliver lived.

"I need to get you to St. Mungos," he whispered urgently, trying to figure out the best way to move her. She was nearly naked, mere scraps of clothing covering her. He wasn't ready for this situation, not in a million years. He pointed his wand at her and muttered, "_Curabitur." _The woman's bleeding slowed to a trickle and he nodded to himself, trying to ignore how badly he was shaking.

_One step at a time. What did you learn in the battle? You worked with Madame Pomfrey, you moron...Think. Think. _

"N-No…" Her voice was a sudden sigh, her swollen lips hardly moving. "No…St. Mungos…anywhere…safe…p-please…"

Oliver stared down at her, his mind working furiously. She didn't want to go to the hospital, and she was still conscious enough to reason. At most, he could abide her dying wish. At least, he didn't give a fuck where they went, as long as they weren't in that dark alley any longer.

Maybe he could help her.

Oliver glanced down at her once more and saw that her eyes were beginning to close. Later, he would remember thinking that despite the swelling and bruising, her eyes were quite brilliant.

Amber, like liquid topaz.

He didn't want to see them close, and in a panic, did the only logical thing he could think of. Godric pulled the pieces of her broken wand into his mouth as Oliver bent and picked her up in his sore arms. Her head lolled against his chest as he cradled her shoulders and knees, careful not to cause her any more pain. Her bare skin was cold to the touch.

With his wand tucked under her body, Oliver Wood rushed her back to his home, Godric bounding at his heel.


	2. Fate

**Silence**

The moment Godric's bushy tail crossed the threshold of their home, Oliver closed the door with his foot. He locked it, waiting for the satisfying click, before standing still in the front hall. Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened. The only noise in the darkened home was his and Godric's ragged breathing.

"Do you think whoever did this is still out there, boy?" he finally muttered to the collie, who was sitting by his feet with his tongue lolling out. Godric didn't seem too worried, so Oliver shifted the woman's weight and cast several protective charms over his home. He hoped whoever they were hadn't followed, but it'd have to be put on the backburner for now. The woman in his arms was clearly failing despite his clever clotting charm. She was pale and cold to the touch.

Oliver carried her to the living room and laid her down gently on the leather couch before closing the blinds with a flick of his wand. He didn't want anyone passing by to think he was home, so he couldn't do much for lights. As a substitute, he pulled out several candles Fred and George had nicked from the Great Hall and sent him after he was accepted as a reserve Keeper. The candles lit themselves and floated towards the ceiling, bobbing in midair and sending a warm glow over the room.

Still shaking, Oliver kneeled beside the woman to examine her injuries. In any other situation, he would've been mortified to have an unconscious and nearly naked woman in front of him, but he hardly noticed. He fell into his concentrated Quidditch-mode, something that made him a good accomplice to Madame Pomfrey in the Final Battle.

The worst injuries were the slash marks marring her body. In the soft candle-light, he could see just how deep they were. She had lost a lot of blood.

What had the spell been? It had been years…Oliver wracked his brain as he felt Godric settle in besides him and place his head on the couch next to the woman's hand.

"_Vulnera Sanentur_," he finally muttered, dragging the wand over a gash in her neck. The skin began to knit back together until there was only a faint pink mark. Satisfied, he moved meticulously down her body, healing every gash and cut.

When Oliver finished, he sat back on his heels to make sure he'd gotten everything. What he saw unnerved him; there was a large bruise blossoming under the skin of her thigh. As he watched, the edges spread slowly. Gingerly, he reached forward and placed his hand on her leg. He added a little pressure, and his breath caught as he felt the bone bend in.

Broken bones. He took a shaky breath and nodded to himself again, because this time he was in his element. They used this spell a lot at Puddlemere practices.

"_Ferula_," he said. Bandages shot out of his wand before winding around her leg. A wooden rod followed, rejoining the fracture before the whole contraption wound into a tight splint.

Godric had fallen asleep and was snoring quietly. Oliver took a moment to close his eyes and listen for any noises outside, but blissfully heard nothing but the lump next to him.

After a minute, he took a steadying breath and went back to work. The woman's breathing was shallow but even and some color was returning to her deathly pale cheeks. He had no clue how to increase her blood supply, so he hoped what she had left was enough to sustain her. They seemed to be out of the woods for the moment, though.

_Fluids might be good. Wait…where did I hear that? A muggle TV show? _

Oliver made a face, annoyed at his lack of knowledge about the human body and medicine.

He didn't feel like much help, so why had fate rolled the dice and crossed their paths? Who was the woman? And who hurt her so badly?

Although his questions remained unanswered, he felt a lot better. He might've saved her life. It was a feeling similar to winning a tough Quidditch match; the adrenaline rush was maddening. He was ready to tackle the next challenge.

The woman was still coated in blood, but the only injuries left were the ones to her face. Oliver siphoned as much blood from her body as he could, dissolving the last bits of her clothing in the process. His face turned pink when he was finished. She looked decidedly more woman and less murder victim now. His eyes traveled down her small, full breasts to the curve of her slim waist and hips. Her skin was creamy white and he could see spots of freckles between the shadows of the candlelight. Fading pink marks were the only remainder of the gashes. He pulled his eyes away and flushed darker. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen a naked woman before, because he'd seen his fair share, but it now felt wrong and completely alien.

Oliver had to remind himself that he was helping her before he could look back. She still needed a bath to get all the blood off, but Merlin forbid if she woke up while he was bathing her. No, he would wait.

He pulled a thick Puddlemere blanket from the top of the couch and covered her from the neck down. Feeling less uncomfortable, he moved over on his knees to her face. From what he could see that wasn't matted in blood, her hair was a long tangle of chestnut colored curls. Oliver tried his best to clean off some of the blood, running his fingers through her hair as he did so. Soft.

She was becoming more real, more human, before his eyes.

Feeling suddenly sick, he pulled away, his chest aching. He wanted to comfort her, but she was still nameless, and he felt awkward. Who was he to presume what she went through? He certainly couldn't recognize her now, as swollen as she was. He wondered if he would see a face he could recognize as a Ministry official or a foreign representative.

No, he couldn't distract himself. Not yet. Not while her face was still smashed in.

Glad she was unconscious, he held his wand above her nose and muttered, "_Episkey._" There was a sharp crack as her nose snapped back into alignment, as small and straight as it was before. More freckles, he noted. He sealed her split lip, and then examined the swelling and bruises.

What kind of monster sought to destroy another person's face?

A monster filled with rage, Oliver decided. Whoever it was must've had a personal agenda against the woman. It was savage, if not downright inhuman.

Finally, he began to work from her neck up and across her face, healing the bruises and bumps.

A rounded chin, up into pale pink lips.

A gently curved jawline.

Long, dark eyelashes.

A smooth forehead with milky white skin.

Amber eyes, still closed.

These features melded into a face and a person that Oliver Wood not only recognized, but _knew._ Though the years had changed her, it was unmistakable.

She was unmistakable.

In shock, he sat back on his heels. He not only _knew_ this woman, he had gone to school with her. She was best friends with the finest Gryffindor seeker and smartest witch of her year.

Hermione Granger.

The last he had heard of her, she was working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on a case involving house elves. It was all over the Prophet.

How did she end up here?

A million questions crossed his mind all at once. Should he call the Aurors? Should he find Potter or Weasley? Send her to St. Mungos? Was she still in danger? Were they in danger? Why wasn't she dead when he found her? Did the ministry killers fail? Did he or Godric scare them away? Why?

What did it mean that she was one of the most celebrated war heroes of their generation?

Should they leave?

No, he decided. For now, it was best they remained where they were. Until she woke up and Oliver got answers, she would stay.

He cradled his head between his knees and took a deep breath to calm his thoughts. She had wanted somewhere safe, and he had given it to her. He tried to reason that who she was changed nothing, but of course it did. His chest ached more violently. He had seen her grow up and had admired her dedication, to studies and friends, from afar. He would never forget the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff in his seventh year when she'd waterproofed Potter's glasses. She was brilliant, and that the world would do this to her was something Oliver had a hard time coping with.

He looked up at Hermione. She seemed peaceful now, like she was sleeping. So innocent. Oliver ran a hand through his disheveled hair and breathed out through pursed lips.

He was embarrassed he had appreciated her naked. The fact that he knew her made him feel like a pervert. Ashamed, he stood up and went to the kitchen.

Fluids, he reminded himself.

A minute later, he walked back in with a glass of water as Godric began to snore loudly. Oliver scowled at his dog and nudged him awake, motioning for him to go back to the bedroom. Godric looked up sleepily at his owner before licking the drool from his lips and laying his head back down next to Hermione.

"You numpty," Oliver whispered, leaning down to stroke Godric's fur. "It seems you'll be keeping watch tonight."

Feeling decidedly clumsy, he positioned himself on his knees again and slipped his hand under her neck. He was pleased to feel that she was warming up as he used his arm to keep her head steady. Very slowly, he brought the glass to Hermione's parched lips and tilted it towards her. Her lips parted instinctively and she swallowed the cool liquid. After a few drinks her mouth closed, but Oliver was satisfied for now.

He set the glass on the coffee table so she could reach it when she woke up.

Outside, dawn was approaching. Oliver could smell it in the air; he was usually an early riser. All he wanted to do now, though, was sleep. With a wave of his wand, he blew the candles out and plunged them into darkness.

He desperately wanted the comfort of his own bed, but knew he couldn't go back to his room. When Hermione woke up in an unfamiliar place after such a terrifying event, he wanted her to see a familiar face. He didn't want her to be alone.

Oliver grabbed a few pillows and blankets from the living room chairs and made a makeshift bed on the floor. He lay down with his wand close and looked around to make sure everything was quiet.

When he was sure nothing was amiss, he pillowed his arms under his head and allowed his eyes to close.

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><p>Despite being exhausted, it took him well past dawn to fall asleep. He was half terrified that someone would barge in, or that Hermione would wake up, or that Godric would begin to growl. The thought made his hair stand on end.<p>

He wasn't ready to face the upcoming day. He was scared of Hermione's reaction. Would she know who hurt her? Would she even wake up at all? What if he'd been too little too late?

He couldn't believe that all this came from his dog needing to piss at 3 am.

But if he hadn't found Hermione, she would be dead.

Oliver preferred this outcome much more.

He just didn't know what to do next.

When he finally did fall asleep, his dreams were muddled and confused. He was burning hot and viciously angry. There was someone there, in the darkness. He could feel their eyes, like arrows in his head. He wanted so badly to fly away.

Sweat beaded down his back.

A dog growled, low and brutal, in the background.

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><p>Oliver woke in the afternoon to the sound of something shattering. He sat up immediately, grabbing his wand and rubbing at his groggy eyes.<p>

The Puddlemere blanket lay in a pile on the floor.

Hermione and Godric were nowhere to be seen.

* * *

><p>AN: Well, hello, hello, readers. It's only been two or three days since I started this ordeal. Luckily, I've had a break tonight from Japanese and organic chemistry and could write the next chapter.

I know it's short right now, but the next chapter will be about double the length. I tend to not like really long chapters.

And if anyone asks, I've purposefully left out Oliver's accent because of personal reasons. I don't have anything against authors who use it, and I like reading it, but it feels weird for me to write it. And I'd do it terribllyy. The sexy Scottish accent is still there-it just takes some imagination. ;)

I want to thank everyone that's added _Silence_ to their story alerts or reviewed. It puts a huge smile on my face to wake up or come back from classes and see an FFnet email in my inbox. I'd love some feedback, so don't be afraid of that little review button.

I'm dedicating this chapter to Ray, who showed insane interest in this project from the start and won't stop pestering me for the next chapter. Thanks, lovely. : ) Here ya go.

Next chapter should be up, at most, within a week. Things are starting to pick up.

Thank you again, readers! Sorry I'm so long-winded.

~Krista


	3. Poison

**Silence**

"Drop your wand. Now."

Oliver had been turning to stand, but the feminine voice behind him stopped his movements. Quick to react, he turned, his wand held out defiantly as his stomach dropped. If he had to fight, he would. Quickly, his brain ran through the spells he had learned at Hogwarts, at the battle and in class.

To his surprise, his eyes met amber.

All at once, he felt an overwhelming relief and dread. Oliver was glad that he could see those brilliant eyes open once more. He had mended her, fixed her, and she had survived the night to stand before him wrapped in a black blanket from the couch. One hand supported her against the wall; the leg with the splint was barely touching the floor.

He was less enthused by the fact that Hermione was holding a large butcher knife in her other hand. Her eyes darted around the room as if she were searching for a way out. She looked like a trapped animal as she pointed the knife towards his chest.

"I said drop your wand!"

"Granger-"

"Why can your bloody dog get out and I can't?" she interrupted, looking over her shoulder to the kitchen door where an invisible dog door led to the backyard. Through the window, Oliver could see Godric peeing on a tree.

"Granger-"

He was cut off again as she put weight on her broken leg and staggered, hitting the wall. He took a step forward to help as she caught her balance, but was stopped by the knife tip against his chest.

"What…What the hell did you do to me?" she asked through clenched teeth, eyes closed. Her breath was coming hard, and she was very pale. Dried blood still spotted her skin and hair.

"Nothing," Oliver said, taking a step back from the knife. With a flick of his wand, the weapon clattered to the floor. "Would you listen to me?"

Hermione's arm dropped to help support her leaning body against the wall; her eyes remained closed.

"Why can't I remember?" she muttered. "A week? Did I lose a week?"

"Gra-Hermione. Listen to me," Oliver tried once more, taking a step closer. Suddenly, her eyes shot open and before he knew what was happening, he felt a sharp pain spread from cheekbone to jaw.

Hermione was holding a small knife that she had had clenched in her fist. Blood trickled down Oliver's face from the gash she had made.

"Bloody fuck!" he yelled, holding one hand to the cut. Hermione made a dash towards the front door, but only made it a couple of steps before crying out in pain and falling. Godric came bounding in at the sound of the yells, but stopped at the living room doorway. He let out a few whimpers of confusion.

Oliver groaned as he brought his wand up to heal the gash. After the flesh had knit together, he walked over and kneeled beside Hermione, who started to scream.

"Hermione, stop," he said, reaching out and turning her face-up. She screamed again, and he winced.

"Let go of me!" Hermione screamed, trying to roll on her side and grab his wand.

Frantically, Oliver covered her mouth with his hand. Her eyes widened as she finally got a good look at him.

"Look at me. There we go. Do you recognize me?" The look in her eyes gave him the answer he needed. "You have to trust me. Don't scream. Listen to me. I didn't do anything to harm you, but you have to calm down."

He pulled his hand away from her mouth.

"Oliver Wood," Hermione breathed out, her chest heaving with difficult breaths. She looked close to passing out. "I know you, but that's no reason to trust you."

"You'll have to," he said. "I'll tell you what I know, but first you need food. You lost a lot of blood." Oliver held out his hand to her, but she recoiled from it.

"Let me help you up."

"Don't touch me."

"Come on, don't be stubborn," he said, reaching for her wrist. She recoiled further, her eyes flashing.

"I said _don__'__t_ touch me, Wood," she snapped.

Oliver held back the flash of annoyance he felt. He took a breath and rubbed his forehead, taking a moment to remind himself that she was a victim of trauma. He needed her trust.

When he held out his hand again, his wand rested in his palm. Hermione stared at him like he'd just offered poison.

"Take it," he said. "Get yourself comfortable. Maybe you know how to help your leg. Better than me, anyways."

"Where's my wand?" Hermione asked after a moment.

Oliver inclined his head toward the corner where Godric had deposited the remains of her wand. When Hermione saw, she looked like she was about to get sick, but instead cast an accusatory glance at him.

"Oi, I didn't do it. I'll tell you when you eat. Come on. Take it."

Hermione dropped the small knife before she reached out and grasped the wand. Her skin barely skimmed his, but he felt how cold she was. Oliver reached under the coffee table and grabbed the Puddlemere blanket, placing it by her side. He didn't dare get any closer.

"Just don't try to leave. You have to trust me that you're in more danger out there than you are in here," he said, standing and walking to the kitchen.

Once a wall separated them, Oliver leaned his elbows on the table and blew air out. He rubbed his eyes and scrunched up his face.

_I __have __no __idea __what __I__'__m __doing. __Throw __me __in __a __Quidditch __game __or __a __battle, __but __something __like __this__…_

He shook his head and went to the refrigerator. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone for groceries; the fridge was embarrassingly empty. A couple of old take-out boxes cluttered one shelf, and the one below it had sour milk. Luckily, he found a few oranges in the back and a box of crackers in the pantry.

Carrying the fruit and crackers, Oliver reentered the living room to find Hermione wrapped in the two blankets and sitting on the leather couch. He stopped to watch as she performed a spell that kept her injured leg suspended above the coffee table. Once it was supported, she rewrapped the bandage and splint, doing a much better job than Oliver had the night before. It was tricky magic, and she did it without flaw.

When she was finished, Oliver stepped toward her. She jumped and pointed the wand at him, but he raised his hands, showing her the food.

"I'm sorry this is all I have," he said, setting the fruit and crackers down on the coffee table before her.

Hermione lowered the wand, but kept a wary eye on him as she inspected it.

"I didn't poison it. Keeper's honor."

"I don't know if I can trust you. I won't eat until you tell me what happened," she finally said. She settled back into the couch, but didn't look comfortable.

"No. I don't want you passing out in the middle."

"But I won't eat until I know it's not poisoned."

"Why would I poison you?"

"Why am I covered in blood?"

"Eat and I'll tell you."

"I won't eat _until_ you tell me."

Oliver sighed, shooing Godric away as he made a mad dash for the crackers.

"Fine. Stubborn witch, you are. But I don't know the whole story," he conceded after a moment, settling down in a chair by the dark fireplace.

"Tell me everything you know," Hermione responded. She looked pleased with herself.

Oliver stared past her to the darkening sky outside, collecting his thoughts. He told her everything that had happened, from the moment Godric had woken him up to finding himself at knife-point. Hermione listened and stared solemnly at him the whole time, her face betraying nothing. When he was finished, the room fell quiet.

Godric rolled over on the floor and let out a big sigh as Hermione reached for the box of crackers. She grabbed a handful and ate slowly, picking at the pieces and keeping her eyes down. Finally, she looked up.

"I can't remember anything, and not just about last night. The last week is completely blank. The only thing I remember is arriving at the Ministry on Monday, and even that's blurred," she said.

"You did have a lot of injuries to your head," Oliver offered, but Hermione only shook her head.

"No. It's not like that," she said, grabbing an orange and unpeeling it with the wand. The skin fell away, and she plucked a wedge. "This time frame is so specific…I remember some things, and then it just goes black, like a curtain was pulled."

"So you think someone tampered with your memory?"

Hermione nodded, but she looked disconcerted.

"Why would they do that if they thought I was going to die?" she mumbled, popping the orange into her mouth.

Oliver watched her as she fell into silence once more. She was staring determinedly at a spot on the wall, her face once again betraying nothing. He was unnerved with how removed she was. It was like she was trying to solve one of those muggle crossword puzzles instead of who tried to kill her.

Maybe it was good that she didn't feel the pain, but Oliver wondered how healthy it was to keep it all bottled up.

She had almost died, after all.

"Do you think it was those revolutionaries? The ones that go after the Ministry officials?" Oliver asked, bringing her back to the present.

"It certainly looks like that, doesn't it?" Hermione said, placing another wedge into her mouth. "But the memory tampering is suspicious. It's out of place."

Oliver threaded his hands behind his head and leaned back, stretching his muscles. He wasn't fit to be a detective, but he supposed Hermione needed someone to bounce ideas off. When he opened his eyes again, she was staring at him. He gave her a half-hearted smile, noting the way the curls at her temple were matted to her forehead. She looked away.

"Maybe it's not so odd. You're a prominent figure in the wizarding world, and they couldn't risk being outed if you remembered anything."

"But that's the thing," she said. Her eyes drifted to Godric, who was sneaking up on the crackers again. She pulled out a handful and held them out to the dog, who wagged his tail and lapped them up. "No one else lived. Why would I be the only one?"

Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it quickly. She _was_ the only one who had survived. If it was the same group of people, had they messed up or was it more malicious than that?

"I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "It doesn't make much sense, does it? Unless they were trying to send some sort of message. They obviously didn't expect my dog having to take a piss at three in the morning."

Hermione looked down at Godric, her eyes softening a bit.

"What did you say his name was?"

"Godric."

"Like Godric Gryffindor?"

"The very same," Oliver said, smiling at her. She looked away again and finished off the rest of the orange. "His fur reminded me of Gryffindor colors. He's a great pup."

Hermione nodded, pulling her good leg up to her chest and resting her chin on it. Even something as basic as eating had exhausted her.

"What good was it for them to leave me to suffer and die? Even if they erased my memory on the off chance I was found, it was still a stupid move," she mumbled, her eyes closing again. "A message, you said. But what?"

"Maybe nothing," Oliver said. His stomach tightened when he remembered what she looked like the night before. He doubted that image would ever leave his head. "Maybe they just enjoy pain. Maybe they were sure you would die. Trust me, it was close."

"What if you scared them away?" Hermione continued, ignoring him. "But that doesn't make sense. What difference would it make if they killed a wizard and his dog? Is it that important to only kill an official? They couldn't have been afraid of you and Godric."

Oliver made a face, somewhat offended, as Godric curled up under Hermione's injured leg. She took no heed of him, completely in her own mind.

"I didn't see or hear anyone," Oliver said, but part of him hoped that he had scared them away.

"But you said it was dark," Hermione countered. "You couldn't have seen anything. I was probably screaming while I was attacked, but they couldn't risk someone coming before I was dead. There must've been a silencing charm. But then here we are again: why am I not dead?"

Oliver unfolded his arms and ran a hand through his hair. She was right; it made no sense, but he doubted they would get answers sitting and obsessing about it.

"I don't know. There's no way of knowing," he said, nudging the edge of the coffee table closer to her with his foot so she could reach the cup of water he'd left. She grabbed it and drank it in one gulp, her slender neck flexing as she swallowed. It was Oliver's turn to look away this time.

"If I could remember-"

"No," Oliver cut her off. "You're exhausted, Granger. You still look half-dead. I need to take you to St. Mungos and then we can see the Aurors. It'll get straightened out."

"No!" Her response was quick enough that Oliver jerked his head up to stare at her. He saw a flash of something in her eyes that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable and like he was too far away at the same time.

"No," she repeated. Her chest was rising more quickly under the blankets. "No, that's a terrible idea. I won't go to St. Mungos."

"What? Don't be ridiculous. You need medical attention, not my basic knowledge of healing."

"I can do it," she said quickly. "I can fix myself. I'll be fine, but I can't go to St. Mungos."

"And why not?" Oliver asked, trying to remain patient.

"Look, Wood. These…these people who are killing Ministry officials have access to everything_._Do you remember where some of the workers were killed? Some of the people I knew?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head, watching her closely. The sun was setting, and her eyes were as bright as the final flecks of amber rays in the sky, her hair framed by the light.

"Some were killed in their offices _inside_the Ministry. Some were killed in the Auror office. Whoever it is, whoever these people are, they have access. It's not safe going anywhere. If they wanted me dead in the first place and failed, I'd just be placing myself in danger."

"So you're saying that you can't go to the Aurors or St. Mungos? What do you do then, just go home and hide away?" Oliver asked incredulously.

"No, of course not. They'll be watching. If you scared them away for whatever reason, they know I might be alive. I just can't confirm that for them," she said, her eyes far away in her thoughts. "They need to think I'm dead."

Oliver groaned and placed his head in his hands. Somehow, this had gotten completely out of his control.

"And how do you propose you do that?"

"Let me think a moment," she snapped. "My blood is still there between the flats, and the Ministry will find out I'm missing soon enough."

"This is madness," Oliver said, shaking his head. "Just go to Potter and Weasley, for Merlin's sake."

"No, don't be daft. If those people thought I was hiding out somewhere, of course they'd check my closest friends first. It's too obvious, especially with them being Aurors. Besides, they have little babies crawling around. I can't put them in danger," Hermione responded.

"But it's ok putting me in danger," Oliver said wryly, speaking without thinking. She glared at him.

"You found me. You saved my life."

"I did, but I certainly didn't know it was going to be this complicated."

"Well, then, I'm sorry. By all means, find a time turner and go back and undo what you did. When you see my death announced in the paper, think about how uncomplicated and wonderful your life is right now."

Oliver stood up, staring down at her with a furrowed brow.

"That is not what I said, Granger."

"What, did you expect an award for saving me?" she asked, her eyes darkening.

"Of course not-"

"Then stop acting like you're the one who was almost killed!" she yelled. Oliver's mouth nearly dropped as he saw the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She sniffled and wiped at her cheeks, her bottom lip trembling.

"Gra-Hermione, look, I'm sorry-"

"I just want to shower. Just let me shower," she interrupted, cutting him off.

"Yeah, right. That'd be good. Down the hall and to the left," he said, pointing it out. He felt downright shaky by her outburst, and was mentally kicking himself for how he'd responded. "Here, let me help you."

"I can manage," she spat, pushing away his outstretched hand. She grabbed his wand and, keeping her leg above the ground, hobbled off down the hall.

"Towels are under the sink," Oliver called after her. His response was the door being slammed and the resolute click of the lock.

He put his head in his hands before tapping himself on the forehead.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered to himself. "You're such a twat."

Godric lifted his head, his owner's words waking him from a peaceful slumber.

"No, not you, boy. Go back to bed. Get some rest. I have a feeling things are going to be turned upside down for a bit."

Godric laid his head back down as nighttime entered the living room and the Hogwarts candles lit, leaving Oliver alone to his thoughts.

* * *

><p>AN: Hello, readers!

Oliver needs some sensitivity training. Oh well. The idea of him with a dog makes my ovaries explode. (But Godric is important to the plot, I swear. I'm not just a dog-loving fangirl. Even though that is mostly true.)

Sorry this was a bit later than I said it would be. Life caught up and I realized I hadn't studied for classes. Eh. College.

Anyways, a huge thank you to anyone reading this and those of you who reviewed. Like I said before, always puts a big smile on my face.

The next chapter should be about the same length. Plot keeps going uphill. (or downhill?) I have a huge orgo test on Wednesday of next week, so expect the next chapter to be put up in about a week or so.

I'd love your feedback! Hope everyone is enjoying _Silence _as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

~Krista


	4. Almost

**Silence**

Hermione cast an extra protection charm over the bathroom door before setting Oliver's wand on the counter. The privacy made her feel better. She didn't trust him-not yet, anyways. In this situation, was it ok to trust anyone? She had no memory, so for now it was best to play it safe.

Even if Oliver had saved her.

But could she trust him for that?

Was that what had actually happened? His story?

Then again, they did have history. At least it was better than a stranger finding her. She had to admit that when she recognized him, she had felt a weight lift from the pit of her stomach. It was nice to see him there, however surprising.

Just before, she had let down her guard.

Should she have?

Hermione shook her head, untangling some of the bloody curls from her neck. He seemed sincere, and certainly didn't seem clever enough to set up an elaborate ruse. He was…what? A Quidditch player?

_All __brawn __and __no __brain._

Maybe he was just a victim of chance, but she wasn't ready to believe anything. He was too perfectly innocent with his big silly dog.

For now, it was best to lock doors.

She moved to grab towels from under the sink, but gasped as she put pressure on her leg and rippling pain shot through her body. She gripped the edge of the counter and willed it to go away, closing her eyes.

"Damnit," she muttered. She opened her eyes and glanced down. The bruises across her upper thigh were nasty purple and yellow-tinged at the edges. She grimaced and grabbed Oliver's wand again before looking for something to bite down on. She decided on an unused toothbrush in one of the cabinet drawers.

Avoiding the mirror, Hermione took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and placed the toothbrush between her teeth. She bit down, making sure her tongue and lips were out of the way before taking a deep breath.

She had to do this, and she certainly couldn't go to St. Mungos.

Fuck, it was going to hurt.

Hermione unwound the splint and threw it in the trash before positioning her broken leg up on the side of the bathtub. She took a moment to breathe before pointing Oliver's wand at her upper right thigh.

"_Mittendum_."

There was a sudden violent crack as her leg shuddered and the bone realigned. Crippling pain shot through her whole body as she clamped down on the toothbrush. Groaning, she leaned back against the wall and tried to catch a full breath.

Hermione whimpered as the bone marrow began to thread together and the spongy bone crackled back into place. The effort not to scream was so great that the toothbrush began to crack in her mouth, poking at her soft palette.

_Yeah…that's all I need, for the big hero to come knocking down the door. No, too complicated. For him._

She clamped her eyes closed and felt several tears leak out and down her cheeks. Clutching the sides of the bathtub, she waited as the compact bone began to pull together, repositioning the blood vessels, arteries, and tissues. A parched sob escaped her throat, but she clamped her lips closed to keep from wailing.

After what felt like ages, the pain faded away to a dull throb.

Hermione opened her eyes and let out a shaky breath. She pulled the toothbrush from her mouth, noting the teeth marks on it before tossing it into the trash.

A couple more days and her leg would be as good as new. The bone wasn't strong yet, but as long as she didn't run around, it would be fine. At least she could put weight on it.

Trying not to think too much about the nameless person who had physically ruined her, Hermione turned the shower on and flipped the water to hot. She pulled the blanket off-her only piece of clothing, she remembered with distaste-and slid onto the bottom of the steaming shower.

She let out a sigh as the streams soothed her aching muscles and troubled mind. The water immediately turned murky brown as it ran off her pale skin and swirled down the drain. Hermione rubbed absently at her arms and legs, making sure she cleaned every patch of skin. Part of her wanted to scrub herself raw.

It was maddening, not knowing.

She ached everywhere, especially from her neck down to the tops of her thighs. Looking down, she realized why. Fading pink lines scarred her freckled skin.

_Oliver. __He __said __he __healed __me._

Maybe he was turning out to be trustworthy. At most, he didn't leave her to die.

But someone did.

Hermione rested her forehead against her knees and ran her hands through her tangle of curls, starting at the base of her neck. It took at least ten minutes to untangle the long mess, and another five to get all the matted blood to swirl away down the drain. Looking up, she saw a sponge and three bottles. Hermione mustered her strength and pulled up to standing, barely placing weight on her tender leg.

She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to be on her bed with Crookshanks curled next to her. Who would take care of him? When she was found missing, would someone adopt him? Probably not Harry or Ron; they despised the little guy. She hated the idea of him being given away. He was _her _pet, _her_ family member, and had been for the last ten years.

_Maybe Wood could…_

_No. _

She looked back at the bottles and flipped the top of the shampoo open. A distinctly male smell drifted out, and she wrinkled her nose. It was woody and fresh, like a forest after rain. It wasn't bad, but reminded her too much of _him_ and _this_. The house smelled like it, like him.

She supposed she didn't have much choice. She washed herself with the body wash before lathering up and rinsing out the shampoo and conditioner.

When she stepped out and dried herself off-exhausted, smelling like Oliver Wood, but alive-Hermione felt like a different person. She felt exposed and insecure, and it was new and completely foreign. Even in the Great War fighting alongside Harry and Ron, she had felt strong beside them. She knew what and why she had been fighting; there wasn't a moment where she considered what was right and wrong.

Now…well, what did she have now?

She didn't know who she was going to fight. She didn't know why. And most importantly, she didn't know if they were coming after her again. Did they think she was dead?

The anticipation, the lack of knowing, made her fingers shake as she tried to comb them through her hair. The Death Eaters and Voldemort had had faces and names. This person, or these people, were smarter and played by subtler rules.

Worst of all, they had beaten her. She didn't know how, but they had mangled her body, destroyed her memory, and shaken her spirit.

Were they smarter? Better?

Hermione hated it.

More than ever, she needed a strong drink, Crookshanks, and a good friend. She needed Harry, or Ron, or Ginny, or Mrs. Weasley, or George. She needed someone to say…something. Anything.

_You __should__'__ve st__opped __it._

_ You should've seen it coming. _

_ You're better than their tricks. You should've known better. _

_ You had been on guard for a while. _

_ Stupid. STUPID._

_ Why did you let it happen? _

She didn't want to be left alone, because the person she had lost faith in was staring back at her in the mirror.

Hermione grabbed Oliver's wand and released the protection charm before unlocking the door. She rewrapped the blanket tightly around her body before stepping out. Immediately, she bumped into a soft, furry side, and let out a quiet scream. Godric jumped up, illuminated in the lights of the floating candles floating through the house, and licked her shin apologetically.

She sighed and placed a hand on his head, fluffing his ears.

"I'm sorry," she murmured; Godric's tail began wagging as she scratched his neck. "Where's Wood?"

The collie pulled away reluctantly before trotting off down the hall, glancing over his shoulder as Hermione limped after him. They reached a half-closed door at the end, and Godric nudged it open with his nose. Hermione leaned against the doorframe, watching as Oliver came into view. He was leaning back against a bed's headboard with a quaffle in his hands. Every now and again, he would toss it up and catch it, his face blank but his eyes dark. Godric barked once as the quaffle was thrown towards the ceiling, and Oliver jumped and barely caught the ball as he looked up.

"Merlin, Godric," he said, putting the quaffle down and standing. He looked at Hermione framed in the doorway. She was still pale, but looked healthier. Her hair hung in long, wet curls, drops of water trailing down her shoulders.

"Sorry if we disturbed your game," she said.

Oliver waved his hand at her in dismissal, taking a few steps closer. Godric went to his side and sat down, moving his head under Oliver's hand for petting.

"Your leg. What did you do? I can't believe you're putting weight on it," Oliver said, turning his head to glance at her right leg where the blanket had fallen away.

Hermione flushed and covered her skin, even though she knew he had seen a lot more.

_It __was __necessary. __Necessary..._

_ What a pervert. _

"Something I learned a long time ago. It was important to know those things during the war. The spell brings the bone back together. My leg's not strong yet, but it'll be better soon."

"Must've hurt a hell of a lot."

Hermione glanced up at him before nodding a little.

"Mm."

There was silence as Hermione took in Oliver's room for the first time. It was covered in Quidditch posters and decorated in Puddlemere gold and dark blue. Several snitches flapped lazily in the corner, and a broom was leaning against the bedpost. To the left, a long shelf held Quidditch awards and a messy pile of books. On the opposite side of the room, a dark desk shelved several rolls of parchment and a pile of quills and ink. It looked like Oliver had tried to clean while she was in the shower; a pile of dirty clothes were spilling from the closet.

Hermione almost smiled, but instead remembered her own lack of clothing. She flushed again, looking at the man standing before her. He had seen her grow from first to third year. They had even bumped into each other fourth year during the Quidditch World Cup. That was when he had been signed to Puddlemere as a reserve, she recalled. They were childhood acquaintances, not friends, and he had seen _all_ of her, stripped down to her soul and more.

Hermione thought that maybe it would've been better if a stranger had found her.

Now she and Oliver Wood were stuck.

Might as well get settled.

"Can I get something other than a blanket to wear?" she finally asked, trying to smile but unable to bring her lips up.

"Oh. Of course. Sorry," Oliver said. He rubbed his forehead and glanced around his room. "Only have men's clothing…I wonder what would fit."

He walked over to his closet and opened the door. Hermione watched as the pile of clothes tumbled out. Godric, annoyed that he had been ignored by his owner, walked back over to Hermione. She scratched his head absently as Oliver disappeared inside the closet.

A minute later, a pair of black shorts came flying out towards her. Hermione barely caught them. They looked a bit big, but had an elastic waist and tie. The next thing came at her in a red blur, and she had no time to react before it hit her in the face.

"Wood, I've been through enough. Let's not test my reflexes just yet," she snapped, catching the shirt as it fell. She held the slick material up to the candlelight; gold and red shone back at her, like home.

"Ah, my bad, Granger. I'm used to…throwing things, I suppose," Oliver said, stepping back into the room. He saw her staring at the shirt. "Ah, yeah. My old Gryffindor jersey. It's the smallest thing I have. Was a bit smaller back then."

Hermione nodded and turned the jersey around, reading WOOD in gold letters. She pulled the shirt to her chest, feeling comfort for the first time since she woke up.

"No, it's fine. Better than that. Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome."

Oliver watched as she hugged the jersey to herself like it was a last lifeline. He thought she looked a bit like the Grey Lady, the elusive Ravenclaw ghost. It was almost like she wasn't really there. He was afraid if he didn't say anything, she would slip away.

"Are you…alright? I mean, of course not, but you were in the shower for a long time," he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

Hermione snapped from her trance, looking up and catching his eyes.

"Wouldn't you do the same?" she asked, looking genuinely curious.

"I guess so," he replied, not quite sure what she was referring to. He motioned for her to sit down at the desk, but she shook her head.

Apparently they were boring Godric, as he had fallen asleep between them on the floor. Hermione looked down at the snoring dog, her eyes warming.

A thought suddenly struck Oliver, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Er. I don't really have…women's underwear or anything like that. If you want, I do have boxers, but…that's probably not the…best…," he said, trailing away and rubbing the back of his neck.

_Good work, mate. Just try to make it more awkward. I dare you._

He avoided her eyes, mentally berating himself.

"No, no. This is fine. Don't trouble yourself with it."

Something stirred in Hermione when she saw how uncomfortable he was. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

"Alright."

"I'm going to change, but then I'd like to go to sleep. We can figure out whatever it is we need tomorrow. I'm exhausted," she said. Without a response, she turned and limped back to the bathroom.

Once changed, Hermione ventured a cautious look in the mirror. The bright red made her look pallid, and the shorts and jersey hung off her body. Her hair was half dry with frizzled curls. Despite looking an absolute fright, she felt like she could sleep.

It was surprising what an old jersey could do for your mood.

She turned to shut off the light, but caught WOOD in the mirror first. Briefly, she wondered how many times she had seen Oliver wear the shirt; how many games he had won and goals he had blocked.

Hermione liked old things. They had history. She could almost hear the roaring of the Quidditch stands, could almost feel the crisp air and excitement.

Almost.

She shut the light off and made her way back to Oliver's bedroom, but when she got there, he wasn't inside.

"In here, Granger."

She turned and followed the voice attached to the Scottish man. He was in a room at the living area end of the hallway. When she entered, he was finishing making the bed in what was clearly a guest room. The walls were white with sparse blue and silver decorations. The bed cover looked like an old quilt, but warm nevertheless. She recognized the pillows from his room.

It wasn't much, but it looked heavenly to Hermione. Her eyes felt heavy, and she wanted nothing more than to fall away into oblivion.

"Nan made this quilt for me when I was just a young one. It looks a bit odd, but it's comfortable," he said, not looking up.

Godric had moved to the hallway, and was currently nudging at Hermione's leg. She reached down and stroked his fur.

"It looks great," she said, walking over to the bed, her legs nearly collapsing as she sat down.

Oliver looked up, startled.

"Do you need help?" he asked, stepping closer.

Hermione shook her head, recoiling a bit, then instantly feeling shameful for her reaction.

"No. No, thank you. I'm just going to sleep. I left your wand in your room," she said, dragging her limp leg up onto the bed. She was dangerously close to falling asleep already.

Oliver took a step back towards the door.

"If you really want the wand, you can have it," he said after a moment. "If it would make you feel better. The house is well protected right now, though."

Hermione doubted it would keep out whoever had done this to her, but she pushed the idea away.

She needed to sleep, not sit up clutching a wand.

"No, it's alright. I can do some wandless magic if need be. Besides, you're right down the hall."

He nodded, offering her a half smile. She tried to smile back, but instead just nodded.

"Exactly. If you need...if you want anything, just call," he said after a moment. "I'll hear it."

"Thank you," she said, pulling the quilt over her body and turning on her side to face the door. Her eyes were drooping when Oliver shut the light off.

"Night, Granger."

"Night, Wood."

Oliver closed the door and stepped out into the dark hallway. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and made his way to take a shower and try to clear his head.

Before he stepped into the bathroom, he heard a distinct click. His hair stood up on end as he tried to place it, wondering how quickly he could get to his wand.

It took a moment for him to register what it was.

Hermione had locked herself into the guest room.

Oliver looked out into the hall and saw Godric lying outside of the bedroom, whining quietly and pawing at the door.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the bathroom, shaking his head.

She had locked herself in. He knew that it probably made her feel safe, but she had also locked him out.

Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused before it.

What did she see when she looked at him?

For whatever reason, he wanted desperately for her to trust him.

_He_ was her lifeline now, not Godric or a Quidditch jersey.

She just couldn't see it yet.

But how do you get through to someone so withdrawn?

Oliver supposed he would find out.

* * *

><p>AN: You guys are the loveliest of readers. I want to hug every single one of you, and I would respond to every one of your reviews if I wasn't sure that I would be incredibly annoying. Here is my gift to you on this very early Thursday. I had eyelid surgery (really stupid) on Tuesday, so my organic test was pushed back till next week, and I had time to write today!

Thank you to everyone who's reading, alerting, reviewing, etc. I love each and every email I get from ffnet. Even you ghost readers. I see you. AND I LIKE YOU.

I need to figure out a few things plot-wise, and my next week is busy, so the next chapter should be between a few days and two weeks.

Keep around! Things will start moving faster.

Lemme know any comments/ideas you have. I'm always open to suggestions! Or drop in what you think is going to happen.

I hope everyone is well and hope you enjoyed this chapter. : )

~Krista

P.S. I got the idea for the Gryffindor jersey from an Olivione fanfic, but now I can't remember. ;_; I feel really bad. Can anyone recall a story where Oliver loans Hermione the shirt to wear? Something about Fred and George, too. It's been a while, and I don't think it's complete. If you guys remember, I'll give credit and link it in the next chapter. Thanks!

P.P.S. Ah! kiwi541 just pointed out to me that in the 4th book, Oliver's jersey was resized and given to Ron. Thanks! I haven't read the books for a long time now (severe lack of time), but feel free to point out any other things that are AU. Despite that, I'm keeping the jersey detail, and there probably will be more forgotten/AU things to fit the purposes of the story. Sorry if it bothers anyone, and feel free to point out other things like that.


	5. Keeper

**Silence**

Oliver woke the next morning at his usual time as the sun rose over the treetops. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, his feet dangling off the edge to touch the cool floor. Through the windows, he could tell the morning was chill; coating the window was a thin frost, cracking into designs as the light touched it. It was the time of year when the leaves begin to turn, and the street was alight with brilliant gold, orange, and red.

It was surreal to wake up on a morning like any other to realize that things had changed. The biggest hint was that Godric was missing from Oliver's bed. He had slept next to him since he was a pup.

But it wasn't only something he could see. Oliver felt as if something in the air was different, as imperceptible as the shift in season.

He stood and dressed in a warm sweatshirt and a pair of jeans before stuffing his wand into the back pocket and heading out into the hallway. It was as still and quiet as it always was when he got up. It was hard to believe that Hermione Granger, brains of the Golden Trio, was asleep just down the hall. It was hard to believe that any of it had happened.

At the end of the hall, Godric was fast asleep on the floor in front of the guest room, one paw raised against the seam of the door as if he were knocking. Oliver frowned when he realized Godric had been trying to get in for most of the night. Though he was a bit upset his dog's loyalties had changed so quickly, maybe Godric realized who needed more compassion at the moment.

Oliver stepped over Godric, but stopped when he glanced at the door. Part of him wanted to make sure she was still there, but the other part of him didn't want to get slapped in the face. He placed his hand on the doorknob before trying to turn it slowly. It wouldn't budge.

He sighed and turned for the kitchen to make his morning cup of coffee. Hermione had to come out some time, and when she did he would try his best to convince her that he wasn't a serial killer.

In the meantime, he'd have to do something about the lack of food. It was embarrassing; there wasn't enough to even get them through the day. While his coffee pot bubbled and brewed, dribbling dark liquid into his Quidditch World Cup mug, Oliver cleaned out the rotten food from the fridge and freezer. His cupboards were luckily bare, so while his cup was half full, he pulled his wand to wash the piles of dishes in the sink.

Oliver had never been embarrassed about the state of his house when he was alone, but now that another person had seen, he was a bit mortified at how much of a bachelor pad it had become. Whenever his mates from Puddlemere wanted to hang out, they picked a bar, club, or one of their flats. Oliver's house was never considered; he didn't want his quiet refuge invaded by a flock of muscle-bound drunks, however well-meaning they were.

The only people who had seen his house were old Hogwarts mates, Quidditch friends or one-night stands. The Hogwarts students didn't care, the Quidditch players didn't notice, and the one-night stands weren't thinking about dishes.

The coffee pot dinged as he finished cleaning, and Oliver grabbed the steaming cup. He blew on the top and took a sip, sighing as the liquid's warmth spread all the way down to his stomach. It wasn't nearly as hot as it looked due to a clever magical pot, but he liked the steam.

Leaning against the counter, he wondered if Hermione liked coffee and decided after a moment that she probably did. It was easy to picture her sitting in his living room late at night, legs folder under her, a cup in one hand and a book in the other.

Shaking his head, he flicked his wand and muttered a spell to keep the pot warm for her. Maybe he would go out and get groceries while she was asleep, but he didn't like the idea of her waking up to no one home.

Maybe she was the strong, brave war hero, but she shouldn't be left to herself so soon.

Just as Oliver set his mug down to pick up a dirty rag off the floor, a piercing scream ripped through the house. He looked up so quickly that his neck cracked; his other hand snatched his wand out.

In the breadth of a second, the house fell silent except for the sound of Godric whimpering. Oliver stood stock still, trying to assess what was happening and what he could do. Suddenly, muffled noises and another scream shattered the quiet. Putting his athletic reflexes to good use, he jumped over the countertop and sprinted down the hallway, nearly hitting Godric on the way.

Through the guest bedroom doorway, he could hear terrified whimpering similar to Godric's. Oliver tried the door before remembering it was locked.

"_Alohamora!__" _

He threw it open, expecting chaos but finding nothing like it. Hermione lay on the bed twisted in the covers, her skin glinting with cold sweat in the morning light. As he watched, her face crinkled in what looked like pain and she whimpered, turning violently to the right.

"Fuck," Oliver said, pocketing his wand as Godric rushed in and started licking Hermione's hand.

He jogged over and placed a hand on her shoulder, but she screamed when he touched her. Startled, he tried to back away, but her eyes shot open, wet and dark, before a hand flew up to slap him. He barely caught her wrist, and her eyes widened. Like when she first woke up in his home, she looked like a trapped animal, not actually looking at him or anything in particular.

"What's wrong?" he bit out, struggling to keep her still as she fought against his grip. He was surprised at how strong she actually was, and his muscles flexed with the effort to keep her down.

"Let me go! Get off of me!" she screamed, trying to hit him with her other fist, but he caught that wrist, too. Godric backed away from the bed and growled nervously.

"Stop it, Hermione. It's just me! For fuck's sake, open your eyes! Don't you remember?" Oliver asked, putting a knee up on the bed to get a better vantage point.

Hermione's eyes were wild, and she stared at him as if she wasn't actually seeing. Oliver wondered if she was really awake.

"You! You were…you were…," she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Suddenly, she flushed with anger and sat up to try to hit him with any part of her body she could move. Oliver barely dodged her attacks before swinging up onto the bed completely. Godric barked as he straddled her upper thighs, pinning her hands by her head to keep her down.

Hermione screamed and tried to arch up against him when she realized she was stuck, but Oliver's grip was strong.

"I didn't do anything to you," Oliver said, trying to keep his voice steady. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look at me."

When she tried to knee him in the side, he pushed her back against the bed, his grip tightening.

"Look at me!"

Finally, she turned, her face twisted with fear that slowly leaked away. Oliver kept a firm grip on her until she was in control of herself, her heart rate and breath slowing. When she fell limp against the bed and unclenched her fists, she looked tormented to the point of tears.

"Oh…" was all she choked out, a few tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and down into her hairline.

He loosened the grip on her wrists, still leaning over her, but kept his hands there, afraid she wasn't completely back yet.

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head a little bit, her eyes averted to where Godric was standing by the door.

"It was just a dream," she said softly. "I'm sorry I tried to hit you. You surprised me."

"Were you dreaming about being attacked?"

She shook her head again.

"No. Well. Of sorts. It has nothing to do with me almost being killed."

Oliver wanted to cradle her against him so he didn't have to see the tortured look in her eyes.

He knew he couldn't.

Instead, he let out a breath through his nose and rolled off of her to stand at the side of the bed, running a hand wearily through his hair.

She was going to kill him if he wasn't careful.

"It's ok. I heard the screaming and thought you were in trouble. Are you alright now?" he asked as Godric settled in next to him.

Hermione sat up slowly as if she was testing the durability of her body. When she was satisfied with whatever she was examining, she pulled her uninjured leg to her chest, resting her cheek on her knee to look at Oliver. Her cheeks were wet, but she wasn't crying anymore.

"Psychologically, it's normal for people who have experienced trauma to have nightmares. It didn't help me figure out anything, if that's what you're wondering," she said, her voice nearly robotic as she avoided his question.

He nodded and patted Godric's head, who merely seemed confused by the commotion.

"Are you alright now?" he repeated.

She sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks, looking despondent.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I attacked you. I didn't mean to…it won't happen again."

Oliver watched her posture fold in on itself, and his arms began to tingle with the want to hold her up himself. Her eyes were dark, trying to fight the need to curl up and protect her body, but she looked tired from a night spent within her mind. Eventually she folded, pulling his Nan's quilt over her shoulders to keep warm.

He hated feeling helpless. He was a person who understood actions and physicality, but not so much emotion and mind. She didn't need what he could offer. She needed support, and he didn't know how to comfort or care for anyone but his dog.

He took a calming breath.

He had to at least try.

"I'll be right back," he said, before turning on his heel and heading to his room. He walked over to the bookshelf and began shuffling through the spines, skimming the titles as he went.

_Quidditch, __Quidditch, __playbook__…__Quidditch, __Quidditch__…__plays, __Athletics __in __the __Wizarding __World__…_

Finally, he pulled out an old textbook he'd had during his Hogwarts years. Despite his less than pristine grades, McGonagall had insisted he take Advanced Charms during his seventh year. It turned out he had been good at it during the Quidditch off-season.

Oliver had many vague memories of spotting the little bookworm in the library or the Gryffindor Common Room, and he hoped she would find solace within the textbook's pages. At least she wouldn't have to dwell on her nightmares for a while.

It was the only thing he could think of doing.

Oliver jogged back to the guest room and stepped in. Godric was lying with his head in Hermione's lap. She had moved to lean against the headboard, her eyes closed and her skin pale as she stroked his fur.

"I found this in my room. If you want to try to get more sleep-"

"No," Hermione said without opening her eyes.

"Right. I'll leave it here," Oliver responded, placing the book on the bedside table. Hermione's eyes opened slowly, and she looked down at the text.

"_Advanced__Charms_," she read, tilting her head. "Is this from Hogwarts?"

"Mmhm. I thought you might like something to read…to get your mind off of things."

Hermione looked up at Oliver and actually smiled, the warmth touching her eyes.

"Thank you," she said gently, reaching out to grab the tome. Her fingers played over the old leather cover, and her face softened as she was wrapped in the comfort of memories at Hogwarts.

Oliver smiled back at her, surprised that he had done something right. He licked his lower lip absently, tasting the remainders of his coffee.

"Oh, shit. That reminds me. Do you want a cup of coffee? I make it black. I don't have anything to put in it right now, so I hope you don't mind," he said.

Hermione didn't move her eyes from the book, flipped over so she could read the back.

"I take my coffee black. That would be lovely," she murmured, already lost in the words of Bartholomew Dignacium the Third.

Oliver smirked to himself, knowing he'd been right about his coffee assumption, before exiting to the kitchen and filling his old Gryffindor mug with coffee. When he came back, Hermione was fully upright in bed with the book propped on her knee. She was petting Godric's back, and he looked like he was in heaven. When Oliver came in, Godric looked up and gave him a look that could only mean, "Can we keep her?"

Oliver scowled at his dog before setting the mug down on the side table. She didn't seem to have noticed he'd come back, so he leaned against the wall and watched her flip through the pages slowly. Every once and a while, she'd nod as if remembering a particular spell or movement. She looked completely drowned in his oversized jersey and the huge quilt, but Oliver couldn't help the smile creeping up his lips.

He cleared his throat as she let out a small laugh.

"What?" he asked. He didn't remember anything particularly funny about Advanced Charms.

"You wrote in the textbook," she said, looking up at him, her eyes not quite warm but at least bright. Amber. Oliver found himself looking down at her, one eyebrow cocked.

"Oh, really? I don't remember that," he said.

She lifted up the open book and Oliver stepped closer to look at it. He made a face when he recognized a poorly drawn Quidditch play to the side of an advanced levitation spell. In his messy scrawl, it said, "Use height to Chaser's advantage." To the left of the spell instructions, it said, "Maybe important for the test? Ask Percy."

"Erm," Oliver said, standing up straight and rubbing his neck. "Quidditch season."

Hermione pulled the book back before grabbing the mug and taking a sip. She closed her eyes as she swallowed and let out a sigh.

"You have a one track mind," she commented, opening her eyes again.

"I do not. I like dogs, too," he responded, pulling a mock-offended face. He leaned over her to pat Godric's backside, who looked up at him with his tongue lolling out and his tail wagging.

Hermione snorted before reluctantly closing the book and setting it on the bed. She turned to Oliver, her face suddenly serious. He was a bit taken aback.

"It's Sunday," she stated.

"Right."

"Tomorrow everyone will know I'm missing."

"No one would have looked for you over the weekend?"

"No, I doubt it. Everyone's been too busy with the Ministry killings. If anyone had time off, I'm sure they'd spend it with their families."

Oliver nodded, noting an odd tone in her voice but deciding not to press it. He went back to leaning against his spot on the wall.

He had to go to Quidditch Monday, but he didn't think bringing that up would help much.

"What do you think we should do, then?" he asked after a moment.

"I have to die," she remarked before sipping her coffee.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, a fake death. It'll be highly publicized in the Prophet. Like I said before, I can't have anyone else aware that I'm alive. I have to be able to investigate my own almost-murder without being afraid for my life," she said, sounding like she was explaining to a child.

"You say it like it's so simple. You said the Ministry wasn't safe, though. So how do you do it without their help?" he asked.

When she didn't answer, Oliver tilted his head to try to catch her eyes. She avoided him, burying her face in the fur at Godric's neck. After a while, she finally spoke.

"I have to think. I'll figure it out, alright? Merlin," she muttered.

"I didn't doubt it, lass," he said, immediately cursing himself for slipping back into his Scottish habits. He tended to do it when he was stressed.

"Can you go for a while?" she asked, a little stiffly. "I need some time alone."

"Yeah. Just yell if you need anything."

With that, Oliver turned and left, closing the door on the way out. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that they had gained nothing.

* * *

><p>Until past noon, Oliver cleaned his disaster of a house and watched his chaotic thoughts trickle by. For a moment he had thought he and Hermione were making progress. She had smiled, the first smile, and they had joked around. He thought she had been better, but clearly that wasn't the case. Her changes in mood reminded him of the Quaffle changing hands during a Quidditch match; constantly unpredictable and sometimes dangerous. He couldn't predict it, nonetheless intercept it.<p>

He supposed he understood why she was like this. It made sense _psychologically_, as she had said. But something bothered him. It wasn't so much that she was jumpy; she was downright traumatized.

Hadn't she gone through more in the War, especially since she couldn't remember now? Why was she like this? Was it all creeping up on her in one big wave?

What was that muggle saying?

The straw that broke the camel's back?

And no matter what he did, why couldn't he get through to her?

And for fuck's sake, what were they going to do?

Everything sounded like a suicide mission.

He hated himself for it, but he found himself wishing he hadn't taken Godric for a 3 am walk.

To keep that terrible thought at bay, he worked more furiously at cleaning, pushing out his frustration through the mechanic actions. He washed the pile of dirty laundry, stacked up the Quidditch books and parchment, and shot off a letter to the Puddlemere captain to say that he wasn't feeling well and might miss practice tomorrow.

Around three in the afternoon, Hermione limped out with Godric to state that she was taking a shower. In the meantime, she asked him to wash her clothes, and Oliver obliged with all the gentlemanly charm he could muster. She said nothing about a solution for her faked death.

He stood outside the bathroom door while she undressed, hating his thoughts with a new passion. He could tell she'd been crying.

However much he tried, though, he couldn't pull the stab of bitterness from between his ribs.

Several slow minutes later, a slim arm extended and handed Oliver the Gryffindor jersey and shorts, and he took them before the door closed and locked.

With an exasperated sigh, he headed to the laundry room and threw the clothes in with the rest. Back in the kitchen, the coffee pot was still warm from his spell. As he added a splash of brandy to his refreshed mug, there was a tapping on the glass of the window.

Oliver jumped and almost dropped the brandy bottle, pulling his wand.

It took him a moment to realize he was pointing at an owl.

The letter attached to the barn owl's leg was a response from Darius Crawley, the Puddlemere captain.

Oliver took a large gulp of his drink, his eyes narrowed, as he read through the page.

_Wood-_

_ Sorry __to __hear __you__'__re __ill, __but __can__'__t __you __take a __Pepper __Up __and __head __over __for __a __while __tomorrow? __We __really __need __you __to __run __the __plays __from __last __week. __Game __season __is __almost __here._

_ See __you __tomorrow._

_ Darius _

Could this day get any worse?

Oliver Wood quickly found out that it could.

A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the front door. His stomach dropped as he grabbed his wand and slid off the seat. Godric ran to the door, letting out little barks with his tail wagging.

"Wood? You in there, mate?" a familiar voice called out.

Godric barked louder as Oliver suddenly remembered with a flash of dread who he'd invited over for dinner a few weeks ago. In all the commotion, he'd forgotten.

"Fuck, fuck, shit," he muttered, running to the door and swinging it open.

Godric jumped up and began licking any part of Harry Potter he could reach. The younger man laughed, flicking his shock of charcoal hair from his eyes and revealing the famous scar.

"Godric! Down boy. Good to see you, too. Hey, Oliver. Hope your cooking is better than last time," Harry said, holding out his hand. He pulled it back when he noticed the look on Oliver's face. "You alright?"

Oliver shook his head, looking up and down the deserted street.

"Look, Potter, I'm sorry I didn't owl you earlier. This is a _really_ bad time."

At that exact moment, there was a click and the sound of a door opening down the hall. Wet feet hit the wooden floor unevenly.

"Fuck!" Oliver swore, turning on his heel to see Hermione standing at the opening of the hallway. She was wearing only a towel, one arm against the wall for support, curls dripping down her scarred shoulders.

"Oliver, I need-"

Harry's eyes widened as he took in the scene.

Oliver saw his fists clench.

Godric whined.

"Mione?" Harry choked after a stunned moment.

Hermione and Oliver swore in unison before Harry stepped in and slammed the door shut, his wand at Oliver's throat.

* * *

><p>AN: Hey, readers! It's been exactly two weeks, as promised. Hope you liked this longer chapter.

And for anyone worried, no, Harry doesn't think Oliver would actually hurt her. Though he is impulsive…you'll see what I mean next chapter.

So. My birthday is on Nov 2 and I would LOVE if you guys reviewed and let me know what you think so far. If not, I still love you and all your dogs. Thank you to everyone following this story! Much love to all of you.

I hope you had a great Halloween and Day of the Dead!

Next chapter in 1-2 weeks. : )

Happy November!

~Krista


	6. Illusion

**Silence**

"What did you do to her?" Harry demanded, sharp emerald eyes flickering from Oliver to Hermione in quick succession.

Oliver held up his hands, his wand dropping from his fingers as Godric let out another low whine.

"Nothing-"

"Like hell!" Harry growled. The tip of his wand pressed into Oliver's throat, making the man grimace.

"Harry James Potter. Put down your wand right now." Hermione had hobbled closer to them, a faint blush of indignation and something else dotting her cheeks. "He didn't do anything."

Harry's wand arm didn't falter.

"Hermione," he protested, gesturing with his free hand at her. "Look at you. What happened to you? Those scars and your leg."

"I'll tell you," she said evenly. "But first drop your wand and let me get dressed. Oliver didn't do anything."

With an annoyed sigh, Harry dropped his wand, his eyes never leaving his old Quidditch captain.

"Oliver," Hermione said, her tone holding a command he found reminiscent of early Hogwarts years. "I need clothes."

"Right," he said, bending to pick up and pocket his wand. Confused, Godric ran over and lay down at Hermione's feet as she collapsed onto the living room couch, wincing as her weak leg buckled under her.

The moment Oliver left the room, Harry kneeled down by Hermione, his brows furrowed.

"If you want me to get you out of here, just say so," he murmured. "If he did anything to you, I'll kill him."

"Harry, I'm fine," Hermione lied, unwittingly backing away from his closeness. She was embarrassed about the whole situation, but unable to think over the ramifications at the moment. Why the hell was Harry here in the first place? Was Oliver really that daft?

Despite that, she felt a certain relief that her best friend was at her side. It felt like years since she'd seen him, when in reality she'd probably seen him Friday at the Ministry. Not that she remembered. She might not have been at work Friday for all she knew.

He was a welcome face, and part of her wanted to bury her head into his shoulder and sob.

She couldn't let herself.

He was definitely a comfort, but also an important source of information.

Oliver came back into the room with the black shorts and his old Quidditch jersey, and Hermione knew the information would have to wait. She gave Harry a half smile as Oliver handed her the clothing, warm from the dryer.

"Potter. Mind a drink?" Oliver asked wearily, sensing that Hermione was too exhausted to get up and change.

Harry looked like he was about to refuse and add something rude to boot, but Hermione gave him a look that had him following Oliver into the kitchen. Oliver grabbed his abandoned brandy bottle from before and poured two glasses, handing Harry the larger one. The man took it stiffly, swirling the amber liquid instead of drinking.

"You know me, Potter," Oliver said quietly after a moment. He took a sip of his drink, letting the alcohol burn straight to his stomach. "I wouldn't hurt anyone, nonetheless Granger."

"You can't trust anyone nowadays," Harry responded, still refusing to drink. "The world is mad. Always has been."

Oliver had always looked with fondness upon the Boy-Turned-Man Who Lived, but the man had a stubbornness that could surpass Oliver's. He was exhausted and exasperated and didn't particularly want to handle the surly auror. The thought that Potter could help them didn't escape his notice, but he was more worried about how. Hermione clearly hadn't made progress on a solution.

Could Potter really help?

Hopefully. They were floundering around in the dark.

But Harry's lack of trust in Oliver left a dark fog to the air, so he remained silently sipping on his brandy until Hermione called them back into the living room. The men entered, bringing their foul moods with them, and took their seats-Oliver across from Hermione, and Harry on the couch next to her.

She was fully dressed, her hair still sopping wet and dripping onto the clean jersey, cheeks pink with exertion. Oliver frowned and tossed his wand to her, enjoying a flash of triumph as Harry's eyes widened.

Hermione gave Oliver a curt nod and dried her hair in a flick, chestnuts curls springing down her shoulders and back. Another flick had her bad leg supported in the air.

"Well?" Harry asked tersely as Hermione set the wand on the table. Godric sniffled by her feet. "Someone say something."

"You'd better sit back, Potter," Oliver commented, placing his now empty cup on the floor next to him. "It's quite the story."

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, the group sat in silence. Hermione looked weary; Oliver nudged Godric idly with his foot, his brain on overdrive, and Harry looked downright solemn. He had asked as many questions as he could as they related what had happened.<p>

Oliver knew Harry had to be accessing files on the ministry killers within his head. He was clearly upset, but when he'd tried to grab Hermione's hand during Oliver's description of how he'd found her, he'd learned his lesson not to touch her as she flinched away.

The sun had set outside, plunging the room into darkness. The Hogwarts candles lit themselves and floated closer to the trio, bathing them in soft light.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Harry finally said, turning to his friend. His eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry we haven't caught them. That that happened to you. It's my fault that this happened; I'm the head of the investigation. I should've known it would only be a matter of time-"

"Stop it, Harry," she responded quietly. "It's not your fault; it's mine. You've done the best you can, especially with Ginny and the baby at home."

"You're wrong-it's not-"

She shushed him with a wave of her hand.

"It's done now. It doesn't matter. What matters is finding out who did this. Do you know if I was in the office last week? Do you remember seeing me at all?"

Harry nodded, tilting his head up to look at her.

"Yes. I saw you every day except Wednesday. Your secretary said you'd caught a nasty bit of flu."

Oliver saw Hermione's eyebrows skyrocket, but he kept to his quiet observation. A spark of jealousy was starting in his chest that he couldn't control. Her nature was so easy with Harry; so natural. Of course, it was to be expected. They'd been friends for at least ten years. But Hermione wouldn't let Harry touch her either. It wasn't just him.

"Sick? I'm never sick," she mumbled, interrupting Oliver's thoughts. "Is there any way you can see what I did during the week? Check the records I filed? Talk to people at the office?"

"Sure, Mione, but it might look suspicious if I ask too many questions. If that bastard works in the ministry, whoever they are will catch wind. We can't have him or them knowing you're alive," Harry said, his eyes dark. "They'll come for you."

Hermione nodded, her face passive with the knowledge she'd already garnered herself.

"But how do you fake her death?" Oliver asked. The two jumped and looked at him as if they had forgotten he was in the room.

"It'll be difficult," Harry said. He sat back into the couch, twirling his wedding band absently. "But we can do it. Whatever will buy us time to figure out who did this."

"When will you do it?"

"Tonight. It has to happen tonight or they'll be suspicious that it took so long to find the body. I'll discover Hermione on my way to your house for dinner. If anyone saw me arrive here earlier, I'll say I left again to grab drinks," Harry said, and Hermione nodded.

Oliver had no doubts that when Harry had opened a whole door of resources, Hermione had figured out a plan. He hoped it would give her a shred of confidence.

"I'll signal the aurors," Harry continued. "They'll come, and I'm sure the media will follow."

"Your acting better be up to par, Harry Potter," Hermione said wryly. Oliver cracked a grin, glad that he wouldn't be there. He was a terrible actor.

"I can handle it," Harry said seriously. "We'll have to make you look like you did when Wood found you. Masking charms should do it, but we'll need him to help."

Shit. Maybe he would be there. Not for long, hopefully.

Hermione glanced at Oliver, her expression unreadable, before looking back at Harry.

"And the healer? Who will you pay off? And where will you get the potion?" Hermione asked.

Oliver was admittedly lost, but didn't want to let on.

"I know someone. Don't worry. They can give me the potion," Harry said. He looked at the clock on the wall before standing. "We have to work fast. I'll be back in an hour with everything. Oliver-make sure people see you. Take Godric for a walk."

At his mention, the lightly snoring dog thumped his tail, not fully waking up from his dreams.

Harry looked like he was going to hug Hermione, but reconsidered and stepped towards the door. She waved him away. Oliver noted her face had taken on a pale pallor, though her eyes were determined.

"I'll be back soon," Harry said, opening the door and stepping out. Oliver heard the click as Harry locked it from the outside.

When he looked back at Hermione, he was surprised to see her standing, his wand gripped in her hand.

"What was I wearing when you found me?"

"Not much," he said before he could catch himself. "Er, it was mostly in tatters because of the injuries. A…a black skirt, I think. A blouse…it was probably white before all the blood."

"And a bra? Underwear?" she asked, her cheeks not flushing in the slightest. She was clearly in working mode. "I don't remember, Oliver. You have to tell me. It has to be as close as possible."

"Tan bra," he responded quickly before he could get embarrassed. "Black underwear."

"Do you have a white button down and black pants? You should; they're staples of any man's wardrobe. I also need a pair of black boxers and a tan shirt. Or white if you don't have tan."

"Uh, right." Oliver stood and jogged to his closet, pulling out the requested clothing. He was surprised he had a tan shirt at all, though it pained him to part with his Quidditch World Cup memoir. When he returned, Hermione pulled the clothes from him and examined them, her lips pursed.

"It'll do."

"I'm going to take Godric on a walk now. You can keep the wand, but be careful," Oliver said, whistling for his dog. Godric jumped up from his spot and ran towards his owner, knocking into his legs hard enough that a weaker man would've been bowled over.

"Are you sure you don't need it? This can wait ten minutes," she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Oliver shook his head. He would rather have her protected than him.

"They're not after me. I'll be back soon."

He stepped out, Godric bounding ahead of him with his ears pointed straight up. He made sure he heard the resolute clicking of the lock behind him before setting off, trying not to seem jumpy as the normal street sounds filtered around them. The street was dark except for the lamps and quiet except for Godric peeing on everything he could.

An uneventful twenty minutes later, Oliver knocked on the door, Godric spinning around and hitting his tail against the wall in his excitement to get back inside to Hermione. The door latched open and Oliver pushed inside. Hermione was by the window, peeking through the curtain at the front step, his wand pointing at the door to let them in. When she saw Godric bounding to her feet, a relieved smile broke out over her face that went straight through Oliver's heart. He quickly shook off the feeling to take in what she was wearing. Somehow, through some wondrous magic, she'd transfigured his clothing to look like a semblance of what she had been worn that night. It was nearly foolproof, and Oliver was surprised that his old clothes looked so seamless on her. She'd also applied a light layer of makeup and smoothed her curls down her back.

"This is my best guess as to how I looked," she said as he watched her. "Are the clothes about right?"

Oliver nodded. She looked lovely, professional, composed. He didn't know how to say that to her, so he kept his mouth shut.

"I'm sorry I ruined them," she said. He thought she sounded a bit nervous, her hands running repeatedly over the front of the blouse, smoothing it down.

"It's alright, Hermione. There are bigger things to worry about," Oliver responded, wanting once again to comfort her but not knowing how. He couldn't give her a book like last time. "How do I help?"

"Do you know masking charms?"

"Sure. Simple ones."

"I need you to perform them on me. Get it as close as possible to what you remember. Rip my clothes as you remember," she said. "Can you do that?"

"Can you lie down?"

Hermione cast a weary gaze at him before slowly settling herself on the floor, dropping his wand beside her. Godric immediately curled into her side and fell asleep with the ease of a puppy.

"You great lump," he muttered, stepping to Hermione's other side and kneeling down. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene from several nights before. His stomach squirmed as he got a clear image.

Oliver grabbed his wand and held it over her face.

"_Dissimulo."_

There was a shimmer in the air, like heat over asphalt, before her face bloomed up, swollen and bruised.

Oliver moved to her neck next, creating illusions of the gashes he remembered, trying his best to replicate what he could. When he reached her shirt, he frowned before dragging his wand down to rip the fabric, adding masking charms before he had longer than a moment to look at her revealed skin.

When he reached her injured leg, he paused, not knowing how to go about making it look broken.

"I'll do it later," Hermione said, waving her bruised hand at him. "Don't worry."

"Alright. Is that all?"

"No. We need blood."

Oliver blanched a little, still trying to cast charms over her legs.

"And what do you suggest we do about that?"

"Get a jar."

He furrowed his brow, but did as he was told, walking to the kitchen and coming back with an old juice jar.

"Cut my palm," Hermione said. "Get a few drops; then multiply it."

"I won't cut your palm, Hermione," he responded, a little too vehemently. The idea of causing her more pain was revolting.

"I'll do it," she snapped, and Oliver moved back as she wrenched the wand from his grip. Something in her tone made him think she was disappointed, but he paled as she slashed through the skin of her palm and held it over the jar. Several beads of dark red blood splashed into the bottom before she sealed the cut. A muttered word later, and her blood filled the jar to the rim. She grabbed the lid and screwed it on.

"For later."

Oliver accepted the wand back and continued his charm work. Finally, he reached her feet and sat back on his heels, taking in the whole sight of her. It was bloody horrifying. When she sat up to look at him, he fell back. It was like a walking nightmare. He had never wanted to see that again.

"You're a sight," he managed.

Hermione didn't say anything, instead standing and limping towards the bathroom. When Oliver caught her intention, he stood and grabbed her wrist. She made a little surprised noise and tried to wrench out of his grasp.

"Don't. Don't look," he said.

"I need to know what they did to me," she responded angrily, fighting against his strong grip.

"You don't need to see this."

"Let go of me!"

Oliver reluctantly dropped his grip, shaking his head as her eyes began to look panicked. He didn't want to ruin what they'd gained so far, but no one could take themselves looking like that. Especially in Hermione's weakened condition. But if she was determined, he wasn't going to force her. She was allowed to make her own decisions, however poor. However much they might affect her psyche.

He rested his head lightly against the wall as she hobbled into the bathroom. There was a moment of silence that made Oliver distinctly uncomfortable before he heard a tortured sob. He rolled over to look into the bathroom and saw Hermione leaning against the counter, her eyes downcast as the beginnings of tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"Hermione…" he started, not knowing what to say.

She looked up into the mirror, catching his eye with the one that wasn't swollen closed. A parched sob escaped her lips.

"L-look what th-they did to my f-face," she cried.

His chest ached with increasing intensity as he watched her lean down and sob, wrapping her arms around her body as if she were afraid she would shatter. He knew she shouldn't have looked. He shouldn't have let her go.

Oliver knew he had to do something, even if it meant getting slapped. Determined to comfort her, he stepped forward and slowly wrapped his arms around her, forcing her to turn into his chest. Hermione stiffened immediately and pressed her palms to his chest, but her sobs weakened her conviction. After a few minutes of standing there, she gave in and pressed her forehead against his chest, leaning against his body as if he were the only thing keeping her upright.

He rested his chin on top of her head, not daring to move much more in case she pushed him away. A silent, sad thrill coursed through him that she had allowed him to touch her, comfort her. He hated that she had to be this weak to do it.

Maybe it was good, he reasoned. Maybe this was the beginning of healing. Maybe now she wouldn't think he'd kill her in the night. The grain of trust she was showing set his resolve in stone.

Oliver would find who had tried to kill her, and when he did he couldn't guarantee that they'd come out alive.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Shhh, just pretend that this is a day earlier. You can't take away my love for Sean; it's just not possible.

I'm sorry for the extended hiatus, once again, but I have a week to satisfy a couple more chapters for you guys before school starts! Then back to two week updating.

Things in the story will start to pick up as they get clues on who did it.

Look out for the next chapter and the details of Hermione's faked death.

Please tell me what you think! I'm a little rusty on my writing, admittedly.

Also, thanks to eldarwen melwasul who kicks my ass when I don't write. Everyone check out her Olivione story-it's wonderful!

See you soon, lovely people. The first clue comes in the next chapter.


	7. AN: APOLOGY

Hello guys.

Huge hello and the biggest apology.

My life has been absolutely insane lately, and I know it's not really an excuse, but it's been really hard. College has been nonstop intense, and when I do have free time, I usually sleep.

BUT! I have not forgotten about you. I am about to reread Silence to get back into the groove.

I will update by the end of this week, and you can hold me to that. I feel horrible for being gone so long. Forgive me 1000 times forgive me.

I love you all. Thank you for reviewing and sending me beautiful messages. It really means a lot to me when I'm having a bad day. In fact, it completely makes my day.

Thank you again, and I'll be back soon!


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